


X

by SkinSlave



Series: Tijuana Bible Study [14]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), The X-Files
Genre: Alien Abduction, Catheters, Consensual Non-Consent, Drugs, Intimacy, Medical Trauma, Needles, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Prostate Milking, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25975687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Unconventional sexual therapy with Dr. Dana Scully(X-Files AU circa '98, abduction trauma recovery, mutual orgasms, the only redheaded ship that matters)
Series: Tijuana Bible Study [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1251812
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	X

Kelly said it helped. She said it let her mind escape the terrible loop, reliving her experience night after night, day after day. She said it gave her a sense of control, dulled the fear.   


But in that moment, with the bright light in his eyes, there was only fear. He knew logically that he was safe, part of an experimental treatment for abduction survivors. He'd toured the facility, met the researchers, signed the wavers. But somehow, blinded in the echoing room, none of that mattered.   
  
The light faded, leaving black and orange spots in its wake. Slowly, he made out the shapes of the room, designed from abductees' descriptions. He was strapped to a nearly vertical platform opposite a second participant. It was a woman, auburn hair falling over her face. Around them: metal walls, lights and cabinets.   


He flexed his fingers, tried to raise his arm. It was as though he was moving through syrup. He swallowed around the growing lump in his throat. A soft moan from the other platform reminded him that he wasn't alone.

"I can't move," he mumbled, a hint of panic in his voice. "Can you move?"   
  
"It's a muscle relaxer," she soothed, slurring. "It's supposed to simulate the loss of control during abduction."   
  
"Bullshit," he said, a bit more shrill, heart pounding. "I eat 200s like candy. This is different."   
  
"They would've taken your tolerance into account. Try to relax."

She made it sound so easy, as though he weren't trapped inside his own skin. He tried again to struggle against the straps that held his arms to his sides. A whimper escaped. He willed his arm to move, to fight. He could hear his own heart.   


The woman seemed to be coming around. He could feel her staring at his Kool-Aid red hair, sharp jaw and full, glossy lips. His mind began to clear. He flushed with shame at being seen so vulnerable. It was too close, too real.   


"Dope Show, right?"   
  
"What?" He paused and tried to focus. "Yeah, I guess. No offense, but you don't look like a fan."   


"No, I suppose not."

She laughed and looked down at the navy pantsuit that hugged her curves. Her sensible flats and minimal makeup didn't scream 'mosh pit.' Still, she had an air of confidence that was comforting. She didn't seem frightened.   
  
“Marilyn,” he offered.

“Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI,” she said in a practiced and flat tone, then paused. “Sorry. I probably say that a hundred times a day. It just rolls out.”

“I know the feeling,” he smirked. “Only for me it's, 'Yes, I would love some cocaine.'”   


Marilyn could feel his fingers warming up. He pulled against the restraints. All he managed to do was wrinkle his Ziggy Stardust t-shirt. He wasn't going anywhere. He took a few deep breaths, counted them. He wanted Dana to talk, wanted to hear her voice.

“So, did you get PTSD from Area 51 or what?” It came out more callous than he intended.

“I was abducted in ‘94, received an implant in my neck, had it removed, developed cancer, had it reimplanted, and my cancer went into remission…” Her voice became soft. “I've never said it that easily before.”

Marilyn cleared his throat, his nervous tic. He could feel it - that metal lump in his neck - heating up under the skin. His mouth moved and the story fell out for the first time. It was fragmented and stuttering. The light, the pain, waking up at home, remembering, their faces, the smell of it, finding the implant, the samples. 

He hid in bottles and bedrooms, and still felt their cold fingers. He sobered up and let himself cry and scream, and still saw them from the corner of his eye. He read books and joined bulletin boards, and still couldn't sleep. In a kind of narcissistic desperation, he wrote an entire album to work through it in plain sight, and he still couldn't fucking move on.

“That's why I'm here, too,” she said gently. “We're going to get through this and come out different. Better. In control.”

The door opened with a soft hiss and they both flinched. A white body, tall and thin, barely more than a stick figure, approached Dana. They spoke softly. Marilyn could see his companion nod and shake her head in reply. She was trying to look relaxed but her hands were fists.   


The white shape, no doubt a lanky researcher in a kind of full bodysuit, crossed to Marilyn's platform. He asked a series of questions - Was he nauseous, thirsty, hot or cold? Did he remember the program's agenda, and did he maintain consent? Satisfied with his answers, the figure left.

He was immediately replaced by two people in identical suits. They said nothing but carried trays of instruments and settled next to the platforms.

Marilyn bit his lip as the figure assigned to him began to cut his shirt away with blunted scissors. He turned away, caught a glimpse of Dana receiving the same treatment. The cool air of the room hit his bare chest as her breasts, natural and nicely shaped, came into view. The swell of her hips under modest white panties was enticing. 

His eyes shifted, keenly aware that he had been staring. The figure tugged the tatters of his jeans away. He looked down. His arms were a mess of tattoos, framing a pale torso covered in scars. Despite having pranced on stage in practically nothing, he was embarrassed to be undressed in front of Dana. He didn't want her to see the pain he wore.

He met her gaze. She was sniffing back understandable emotions. His eyes slid slowly down, from the Irish blush that bloomed on her chest to the neat red bush that hid her sex. He followed the line of her eyes to his length, soft and in pale contrast to his dark hair. He fought the nervous urge to make a sarcastic innuendo.

In moments, their attentions were turned back to the researchers. The figures retrieved coils of tubing with specimen bags from their trays. Marilyn recognized the apparatus and closed his eyes. In the dark, he felt the cold fingers. He held his breath.

The hands held his member steady and slowly inserted the catheter tubing. He could feel it moving deeper, a strange kind of pleasure that was only heightened by his inability to stop it. He whimpered when it moved through his prostate, a sound reserved for lovers and empty hotel rooms at 4am.

Dana moaned somewhere in the dark. He wondered if her experience was also a confusing mix of  _ yes please _ and  _ never again _ . The sounds she made were erotic. He felt like a pervert for listening. Eyes squeezed tight, he turned away, tried to focus on his breathing.

The pressure change low in his stomach, and a strange general warmth, made him wince. It was only natural to release, but it made him feel small and powerless. He heard a soft hum from his companion - discomfort or shame - but didn't dare open his eyes.

The tubing was removed slowly, leaving an itching sting behind. He shuddered, flushed with embarrassment. The door hissed as the figures took the samples away. Alone again, and safe for the moment. Marilyn sighed deeply and opened his eyes.

Dana had buried her chin in her shoulder. Her cheek was bright red. Her chest heaved. Marilyn forgot about himself. He couldn't reach for her, so he spoke softly.

“Are you ok?”

She nodded and hummed, but she didn't look ok. He thought he saw her sniffle.

“Listen, it's ok to be upset. This is heavy shit.”

She turned toward him and bit her lip. Full-on, she had a very different look. She wore an expression he'd seen on green room couches and hotel pillows. She was hot, ready, needy.

He stuttered and looked away. His length twitched. He was reminded of the way the catheter felt, nudging past secret nerve endings. He wanted to tell her that it was ok to feel that way, that it was normal and natural. But since when was he a barometer for normal, natural things?

The figures returned and took up station next to the platforms. Marilyn tried to ignore them, to focus instead on Dana. She matched his gaze.

He flinched when the cold fingers started. They traced over his body, taking measurements with metal apparatus. The figure across the room mirrored what he felt. The hands stroked and scraped. They were clinical but that didn't stop their bodies from reacting.

Her thighs flexed and her eyelids were heavy. They ran over his pale skin. He flushed hot. He could see his member going pink and rising. There was no use pretending. He chewed his peach lipstick off and sighed.

Once they had been inventoried, other tools came out. There were things that whirred and clicked, threats of sensation. The hair rose on the back of his neck. An electric wand against his stomach made him jump. A few feet away, Dana moaned under a Wartenberg wheel.

There was metal that was so hot that it felt like ice, so cold that it burned. There were sharp edges that didn't cut, but just barely, and round surfaces that soothed. The contrast made his toes curl. He hadn't been stimulated like that since...

When the fingers pushed his head forward, rubbed the base of his neck, his breath hitched. The implant was there. He sank into the illusion, the sterile room, the bright lights. Maybe they would cut him, take it out. Maybe they would add another. His cock throbbed.

The figure let him lie back. He and his companion left the room, presumably for a break. The captives locked eyes. They were both breathless.

“I'm glad you're here,” Dana murmured. “I would never have come to terms with… this… if I were alone.”

“I don't… I'm not…” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Fuck, I'm so hard.”

Dana giggled. It was nervous, not malicious. Marilyn smiled. He probably deserved a giggle anyway, after the crack about Area 51.

“When this is over, will you… will you fuck me?”

His eyes opened and his lips parted. She was beautiful, blushing and blue-eyed. Her hands were curled into fists. There was a sheen at the top of her thigh.

“Please?” she whispered. “I want you to.”

“Yeah.” His voice was dreamy. “I mean, if you still want to after-”

The hiss of the door cut him off. The figures returned. They seemed smaller, less threatening. But their hands were firm and still cold.

Marilyn didn't fight the lubricated device at his entrance. He moaned softly as it sank into place, just touching the right spot. Dana's mouth was open, watching. Her figure was prodding her abdomen with one hand over her mound.

“It's ok,” she murmured, trying to sound comforting. “I'm here.”

The device inside of him began to vibrate and rock. He gasped and tensed, then melted with an almost feminine moan. A collection bag was positioned and tightened. It wasn't going to take long. His prostate throbbed with the mechanical pressure.

Through watery eyes, he watched as Dana was groped and caressed. The figure wiped a swab across her stomach, leaving a streak of iodine. It began to unwrap something sterile. They were going to cut her.

"No, wait," Marilyn said, straining. "You can't…"

"It's ok. I want it."

How could she? She was the kind of woman who washed her hair on a schedule. She bought nude makeup and matching underwear sets. She went to college. She had her shit together.

"No. Stop!"

"Shut up, Dope Show. I know the safe word."

Her figure began to push a thin needle into the pad of her stomach. A drop of blood escaped. Marilyn opened his mouth to protest again, but it came out a scream. His figure had seated a heavy clamp on his right nipple. Another followed.

He kept his eyes on Dana. Her gasps and moans seemed far away. As soon as her figure was satisfied, they began unwrapping a second needle. Prick after prick, metal rods disappeared under her skin. She bucked her hips.

He didn't want to cum. It wasn't right. But the nearly painful pleasure in his ass, the electricity coursing through his cock, betrayed him. It was already leaking, streams of shame drooling into the bag. It was too much and not enough. Tears began to flow, streaking his face with mascara.

Dana went stiff. She let out a choking sound, then a tight moan. He'd never seen a woman cum so hard. The clenching of her abdomen made the blood drip into her pubic hair. It was the most horrific beauty he'd ever seen, fading to white as he filled the collection bag.

The comedown was just as intense. Marilyn barely registered anything, from the hands removing the devices to the wheelchair they slid him into. Everything was dizzy and muffled. The light went out.

"Hey."

Dana's voice cut through the warble of his own pulse. He was lying down. The room was grey-blue, soothing, warm. He was sore.

"You've been out for a while. How do you feel? Your vital signs are good, but… emotionally… are you ok?"

He managed a hum and struggled to sit up. They were both still naked. If she didn't care, then neither did he. He pulled her close. She felt good. He wanted to hold her, to say everything, to fuck her brains out, to exist in her world.

"Best sleep I've had in a long, long time."

  
  



End file.
